Chapter Twenty-One
CHAPTER
21
Dougie has one camera in his hand and another around his neck.
‘Where were you?’
‘Looking for orchids.’ I can’t even try to smile.
He winks at Kit. ‘You too, mate?’
Eyes hard, Kit looks at me. ‘No.’
Dougie grimaces. ‘What’s up with you two this time?’
‘Kit and I see things differently.’
‘Yeah, but …’
‘I look at things from the ground up. Kit looks down on them.’
Dougie hoots a laugh. ‘Anything to say to that, Kit?’
Ignoring Dougie’s question, Kit leans over his pack. ‘Adam will come with me. The rest of you look after Mackenzie.’
‘I don’t need looking after!’
Kit is pocketing carabiners as I stalk past, my pack held tightly to my chest. When Astrid and Dougie catch up, Dougie trains his camera on the side of my face.
‘What nerve did I hit back there?’ he asks.
‘I don’t need Kit’s help.’
‘You’re happy out here on your own. Is that what you mean?’
‘Dad brought me here before I could walk.’
‘You know your way around?’
‘I’ve hiked and camped all my life.’
A bellbird. A corella. A kookaburra. I point out the obvious things and other things too. A silvery perch. A shoal of minnows. Mosses. Grasses. Eucalypts. Dougie and Astrid follow me over rocks to the other side of a creek and I show them more. The nest of a lyrebird. A glittering golden lichen. A goanna, a possum, a family of roos. Astrid refrains from asking questions until we take a circuitous route back to the river.
‘You said that you look at things from the ground up. What did you mean by that?’
‘It’s not just the plant, it’s where the plant comes from.’
‘That’s meaningful to you?’
I shield my eyes from the sun as I search for words. ‘There’s a lot going on under the surface, things we can’t see, and then, like an explosion, the plant comes out of the earth.’
‘Who showed you how to sketch? Where did you learn?’
‘When Dad took photos and filmed, I liked to draw. He bought me supplies and taught me about light, shade, composition. Then I just …’ I shrug, ‘drew stuff.’
‘I saw the lily you drew for Chloe.’
‘It was a copy of a photo she had on her camera. Sketching from life is different, it’s real.’
I lead Astrid and Dougie back to the orchids I found this morning, and after foraging carefully in the surrounding undergrowth I find other species, some with spent flowers. Dougie’s camera is on, but I don’t give a thought to James’s dots as I sit on the ground and draw. The darker shades that curve around the lip. The lighter shades that sweep up into the anther. Moisture and heat and texture. Astrid’s questions sometimes get in the way.
‘You draw the dirt?’
‘Granules hold the roots in place.’
‘What else do you see?’
‘The sun warms the earth and draws out the stem.’
‘You only use lead pencils?’
‘There are thousands of colours in shades of grey.’
‘How did your father see things?’
‘Through the lens of his camera.’
***
When we return to the clearing, Kit, with dirt on his face and a rip in the arm of his shirt, is crouching on the ground, his forearms on his thighs. I was angry before and nothing should have changed, but I feel a horrible need to rub the creases from his brow.
I put my hands behind my back. ‘Kit.’
‘Mackenzie.’ He nods abruptly. ‘How did it go?’
Dougie smiles as he gives a thumbs-up. ‘She aced it.’
Astrid’s smile is more contained. ‘An improvement.’
Kit is different for me. Am I different for him? Different from Chloe and other women he’s dated? Chloe would know his rules, she’d know about passion—what it means and how to deal with it. She and Kit have broken up but notwithstanding his shit social skills, they seem to get along. Even though Kit and I have never been together, I know we can’t be friends.
‘How was the climb?’ Erik asks him.
Another glance at me. ‘Hard.’
The Viking walks behind me on the trek to the bus, standing back while I stow my bag. By the time we leave, it’s after four and I call Grandpa, giving him an edited version of what happened today. I warn him I’m running late and I’ll see him in the morning.
‘We’re on our way to the mine,’ I say.
‘It’s good the snow bloke sees it,’ Grandpa says. ‘It’s good that people know.’
***
Occasionally on weekends I’d go with Dad to the mine. Even when it was still a working mine employing hundreds of people, with sheds, prefab offices and maintenance facilities, as well as trucks and other equipment on the site, it was like a wasteland. One day we hitched a lift with a truck driver who took us down winding circular roads to the base of the cavernous valley. Before the operator was wound up, it cleared away buildings and filled parts of the valley with rocky debris. Since then, nothing.
‘What a mess.’ Dougie has camera gear strapped to his chest before we’re even out of the bus. ‘It’s great.’
Erik nods. ‘It can only improve.’
‘Your family worked in the mine,’ Astrid says. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘My great-grandfather worked here for forty years. Grandpa was expected to be a miner and that’s where he started out, but his asthma couldn’t take the dust so he took an apprenticeship at the saddlery. The pay was poor and he was about to get married, so he took labouring jobs on the weekends.’
‘He enjoyed saddlery work?’
‘Always.’
‘And you?’
‘I like it too.’
‘Your father had options in the city. Why work out here?’
Be yourself. Forget the camera. ‘Dad needed a regular income.’ When I increase my pace, Dougie jogs to catch up. ‘We also needed a home.’ I try to imagine how Grandpa would have explained things. ‘Those things came first for Dad. He wanted to be in Summerfield.’
Only he didn’t want to be here. I would never have been able to say that to Dad or Grandpa, but deep down inside I knew it. I’m not aware that I’ve walked so far ahead until Astrid calls me back. Dougie and Erik are either side of her and Kit stands to the side. They’re all staring. I swallow, look down at my boots. The gravel is grey. The ground all around us is grey. Not a tree, not a bird, not a lizard, not even a weed. Deserted. Desolate.
‘Mac!’ Astrid calls out. ‘The mine site. Is there hope?’
My boots crunch on the gravel as I march back. ‘You want the truth?’ My eyes fly over the wasteland. ‘I hate it here! My grandfather hated it! My father hated it!’
‘I didn’t—’
‘We all hated it!’
‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Let me finish!’
After glancing at Kit, Astrid nods. ‘Go on.’
I have so many words in my mind. So many words for this place. ‘When Grandpa was fighting to close the mine, he’d come here at dawn, day after day after day. Why did he do that? To give him the strength to keep fighting. Because every single day, while he sat on his verandah making his living, he’d talk to anybody and everybody about the mine, how things had to change.’
‘A man with a cause,’ Erik says quietly.
‘He’d tell people sympathetic to the closure to write letters to the government, asking it to take away the mining leases. He’d invite people opposed to the closure to join him so they could talk things through. He’d hear them out, listen to all they had to say, and then he’d tell them to write letters giving their points of view. He told them to let the government know that if the mine was closed, it had a responsibility to find jobs for a community that had, for generations, supported the power needs of the country. He said the government owed them a livelihood for the work they’d done in the past.’
‘Your grandfather,’ Erik says. ‘Why won’t he talk to us?’
‘Haven’t you been listening?’ The ache in my chest ramps up. ‘He’s done enough!’ I look away, to the bleak grey landscape and the darkening sky beyond it. Nails digging into my palms, I face them again. ‘After the mine closed, Grandpa was desperate for rehabilitation work to begin. He fought to get engineers’ reports, then he fought for funding. Even before he got sick, he worked out he couldn’t keep fighting on his own.’
‘He has achieved many things,’ Astrid says.
‘Grandpa wants to inspire people in Summerfield to keep fighting for the wetlands, for bushland, for a lake that’ll bring wildlife back into this place. We have some funding, we need more. That’s why he made the submission to the institute—not just for the exposure, but to encourage people to let governments know the environment should come first.’
‘His was the first expression of interest we received,’ Erik says.
‘Grandpa doesn’t only care about Summerfield, he cares about the world. He knows he can’t bring millions of people onto his verandah …’ I swallow hard, push back tears. ‘He knows he can’t change people’s minds all on his own, especially not now.’
Kit unlocks his jaw. ‘You don’t—’
‘He thinks you can!’ I wipe a hand across my eyes. ‘He thinks you can change people’s minds. He wants you to talk for him!’
Everyone’s eyes are on me, but no one says a word. Dougie, whistling quietly, lowers his camera.
My eyes burn. I’m cold.
‘Your grandfather has fought long enough.’ Erik, in an avuncular way, puts an arm behind my back. ‘Let us take you to him.’
***
Kit sticks to his side of the bus seat and I stick to mine. But when Erik joins Dougie up the back and Kit moves his leg out of the way, when the bus twists around the bends, when Astrid stands and leans over Kit to talk to me …
Our thighs touch. Our knees. Our boots. Our shoulders. When my forearm touches his, I’m suddenly much too warm.
As the bus pulls off the road to the saddlery, I undo my seatbelt and hang onto the back of the seat in front. As if he knows I’m ready to bolt, Kit stands and moves to the side. When I look up, our eyes lock.
Did he deliberately make things more complicated? He’s direct. Honest. He wouldn’t set Astrid against me. I clear my throat.
‘I shouldn’t have suggested that you set me up. I’m sorry.’
His eyes are on my mouth, but only for a moment. ‘I’ll get your bag.’
My quiet goodbyes are in keeping with the sombre mood on the bus. Because we’re all tired? Or because I’ve blown the chances I’ve been given? I hold onto the railing as I walk down the steps. When the bus shifts forward ready to make a U-turn, I blink to adjust to the darkness. The verandah light is off, though I’m sure I left it on. Has the globe blown?
‘Where is your dog?’ Kit asks.
‘With Shelley.’ Kit follows me through the gate but at the bottom of the steps to the verandah, I stop and face him. When he gives me the bag, our hands touch. A traitorous warmth. A lump in my throat.
‘Thank you.’ I hold the bag between us. ‘Goodnight.’
He glances at the house. ‘I go to Oslo at the end of next week.’
Back to his Viking ship? I swallow, nod, throw my plait over my shoulder before bringing it to the front again.
‘Sov godt, Mary Mackenzie.’
‘Are you swearing?’
He rubs around the back of his neck. ‘Sleep well.’
Kit was walking in the bush late last night and was awake far earlier than I was this morning. Does he sleep at all?
‘Kit!’ Dougie shouts. ‘Hurry up!’
The steps to the verandah seem steeper than they were. I unlock the door, flick on the lights, take two steps inside and—
Before I left the saddlery, I closed the door between the workshop and the rest of the house so the sunlight that streams through the kitchen to the hallway wouldn’t dry out the leathers. As I waited for the bus to collect me, the verandah globe cast a puddle of light on the garden and saddlery sign. Now …
The verandah light is off.
The workshop door is open.
I take jerky steps backwards. I stand on the doorstep and peer into the workroom.
Besides the crunch of the bus wheels on the gravel as it turns onto the road, I can’t hear a thing. But I pull out my phone and call Shelley.
‘Can I come and get Keith Urban tonight?’
I dash to my room for my car keys and run back onto the verandah before slamming the door behind me.
***
After I get back from Shelley’s house, I click on all the lights and Keith Urban and I walk around the outside and inside of the saddlery before locking the doors. Whoever broke into my house the first time didn’t hide it. This time, nothing was disturbed. But was turning off the light and opening the door deliberate? Did they want me to know they were here? Was it a warning? Of what?
If Kit had walked me to the door, what would he have thought if I’d opened it up and then stepped back? He’d have asked why. And if I’d told him the truth, that a few weeks ago someone had broken into my house and smashed Grandma’s vase and my Shetland pony and I thought it might’ve happened again, he’d have asked questions. If I’d answered, what would he have concluded? This confirms that Summerfield is more trouble than it’s worth.
I touch my mouth. Still tender. How can that be?
Sleep well, Mary Mackenzie.
Keith sits at the open bathroom door as I unravel the braid the Viking tied and clumsily brush through the crinkles in my hair.
‘Grandpa comes first, that’s what I told Kit.’ Keith Urban pricks his ears. ‘He lives a different life in a different universe. It could never work.’
Still damp from a shower, my hair fans over the pillow when I finally climb into bed. My eyes are scratchy with sleep, my limbs are stiff and my arm is sore.
There’s also an ache in my heart.